


A Long Wait

by refurinn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, War Era, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 03:22:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/refurinn/pseuds/refurinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1912-1919. Mycroft's engagement to one Lestrade, and then another.</p><p> <i>Mycroft meets her first. He raises her fingers lightly with his own, bows at the waist in absence of a kiss. She smiles. She is pretty. But not as... not quite as...</i></p><p> <i>‘Gregory,’ her father introduces the boy next to her, hands clapping heavily onto his shoulders.</i><br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Long Wait

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first foray into fanfiction I've had in a while. I am terrible at actually finishing anything I write, and thus this was written in one sitting. I've checked through it but otherwise it has not been beta'd.

**1912**

\--

He is to be married.

Mycroft says nothing, clasps his hands behind him and stands, shoulders straight.

The Lestrades. They’re a nice family. Good things will come of this.

‘Yes father,’ Mycroft says. His father smiles gingerly. Perhaps at him, it’s not entirely impossible. More likely, at the newspaper he has not lifted his eyes from.

Mycroft retreats to his room. He stands just behind the closed door, hands against its frame, head down. He thinks, thinks. Marriage does not seem so detestable. It is an achievement, many would say. It does not matter how he attained it, achievements are achievements. He will marry, and his father will be proud, but he will not do this for his father. He will do this for himself.

The door handle rattles and turns. Mycroft steps back to allow the door to open and Sherlock scrambles into his room, hands stained with an undefinable substance.

‘I hear she’s nice,’ Sherlock says, and flops onto Mycroft’s bed.

Mycroft hums.

\--

Mycroft meets her first. He raises her fingers lightly with his own, bows at the waist in absence of a kiss. She smiles. She is pretty. But not as... not quite as...

‘Gregory,’ her father introduces the boy next to her, hands clapping heavily onto his son’s shoulders.

‘Gregory,’ Mycroft repeats. His arms feel stiff at his sides. He is unsure of what to do. The boy looks pained for a moment.

‘Greg,’ he amends, and smiles tightly. Mycroft nods.

‘Come Mycroft,’ says... Mycroft’s brain stutters for a moment, and he blinks slowly. No, he’s forgotten, this cannot be... Elizabeth, of course. Sister to Greg, Greg, Greg. ‘Come sit with me,’ Elizabeth says, taking his arm in a gentle grip.

‘Yes,’ he replies, and turns to look at her, and not at Greg, Greg, Greg. He closes his eyes momentarily, and schools his features into a smile. ‘Of course.’

‘Gregory, are you coming?’ she calls behind them as Mycroft manoeuvres her through the people milling about the hall.

‘Not yet,’ he calls back. ‘I’d like to dance, first.’

\--

Greg is not the most graceful of dancers, but his charming demeanour disguises it well. His grin is a permanent fixture, eyes crinkling with glee as he laughs, kissing the cheek of his current escort before he moves on to the next, waiting patiently a foot away.

‘My father says you are looking to go into politics?’

‘Yes,’ Mycroft says smoothly, sipping idly at his water and turning to face Elizabeth again. ‘I’ve taken a particular interest toward it.’

‘And what do you make of the rumours of war?’

Mycroft can hear Greg laughing in the background, thinks of him running a hand through his hair as he tries to remember the steps. It’s what he’s done the previous three times.

‘Best left as rumours for the time being.’

Elizabeth laughs softly.

‘That’s a good answer,’ she says. She looks down at her hands nervously, then up quickly. ‘Would you care for a dance?’

Mycroft’s father is watching. Elizabeth’s father is watching. Mycroft stands, bows again, and offers his hand.

Elizabeth moves with grace, and she is beautiful, but not as... not as... beautiful...

\--

**1913**

\--

‘What do you want, Sherlock?’

‘Mother is having guests over this afternoon. She’d like you to play piano for them.’

‘I know that is not true,’ Mycroft sighs, flicking through the papers on his desk. ‘Mother is eager to hear your progress with the violin. My attendance is not required.’

‘But you will come and listen? Your thing will be there,’ Sherlock adds hastily.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow.

‘Your,’ Sherlock shakes his hand in the air, ‘ _thing_.’

Mycroft thinks.

‘Elizabeth is out of town this weekend,’ he finally settles on.

‘But the boy,’ Sherlock says.

Oh.

_Oh._

‘I will come down to hear you play,’ Mycroft murmurs.

\--

‘Hello again, Mycroft.’

Hands settle briefly on his shoulders, hot breath on his neck. Mycroft has been tracking his progress around the room, had turned his face down when he’d gotten too close.

‘Hello again, Greg.’

Greg flops onto the settee beside him and grins.

‘It’s a lovely party.’

‘Yes,’ Mycroft smiles indulgently. ‘I see you’ve somehow escaped the conversational clutches of Aunt Delores.’

‘Who’s that one again?’

‘In the delightful yellow dress.’

‘She was a terror.’

‘Indeed - and of Mrs Grant.’ He pointed.

‘She was even worse.’

‘And of Mrs Caulfield, not once but twice. An impressive feat, I must admit.’

Greg groaned, slumping and letting his head tip to the side. It wasn’t touching Mycroft’s arm, but it could be if he just... just...

‘Have you done any more paintings?’ Greg asked abruptly, sitting up.

‘I’m afraid not.’ Mycroft’s hands twitched at his side.

‘The ones you have done,’ a slow smile spread across Greg’s face. ‘Care to show me again?’

‘With pleasure.’

\--

Greg touches him, upstairs. Just a hand on his arm, but Mycroft’s shirt sleeves are rolled up and he can feel it on his skin, and he can smell him, smell him, smell him.

Stop, Mycroft.

Elizabeth.

\--

**1914**

\--

Mycroft forms a strong friendship with Greg. He is there whenever Mycroft is made to join in on hunting, and attends most of Mycroft’s mother’s tea parties. He is always at ease in Mycroft’s presence, slouching and laughing and showing the side of himself that is more boy than gentleman. He asks Mycroft about his piano and about his art, listens with genuine interest when Mycroft explains their current political standings to him. Mycroft, in turn, listens to him speak of sport and of his studies, his concern for his future. Greg escorts him on walks through the forestry, challenges him to races even though Mycroft is not one to ever run, and smooths down his hair when the wind has mussed it just so.

At times, Greg watches him with a peculiar expression.

Mycroft stands rigid and self conscious and doesn’t know what to think.

\--

‘I’ve been conscripted,’ Greg tells him softly.

Mycroft is lying on his back, hands folded neatly over his stomach. From the corner of his eye, he sees Greg turn, prop himself up with one elbow. The grass stands tall on either side of them, wafting gently with the breeze, the moon just a sliver but the stars burning impossibly bright.

Mycroft closes his eyes. He breathes heavily through his nose and tries to control himself. He unlinks his hands slowly, lets them linger for a moment, then reaches one out to Greg. Greg grabs hold of it immediately, and Mycroft’s eyes snap open.

‘Don’t marry my sister,’ Greg says. He’s a lot closer than he was before, his voice urgent and visible as a white mist in the cold night. Mycroft doesn’t know what to say, he’s never thought... never even considered...

‘Don’t marry her,’ Greg insists again, and now Mycroft can feel his heavy weight at his side, and he’s so warm, warmer than any human Mycroft has ever touched. ‘Wait for me.’

There’s no question to it, no question at all. Mycroft has no choice, he never did when it came to this boy.

‘Greg.’

His breath stutters, and then Greg’s mouth is there, on his jaw, on his cheek, on his lips.

\--

**1915**

\--

‘I can’t marry you, Mycroft.’

Mycroft stills, something like fear running down his spine.

‘There is...’ Elizabeth pauses. ‘Someone else.’

 _For me_ , the sentence would imply, but Mycroft knows that is not the case. _For you_ , is what she means.

‘I’ve come to care deeply for you,’ Mycroft begins, and Elizabeth clutches both his hands in hers.

‘I know.’ She kisses his cheek, stands on her tiptoes to do so. ‘Father will not be upset with me. He is not as stern as yours, but... be careful.’

Mycroft feels weak with relief.

‘He always does this, you know,’ Elizabeth says. ‘Steals people away. He doesn’t mean to, although... this time, perhaps...’

Her smile is kind.

\--

Mycroft writes, but not often. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know if they’re being received. He’s heard no news for months.

\--

‘Look at this.’ Sherlock waves the piece of paper as he walks past, settling on Mycroft’s bed. ‘It’s a photograph of you.’

Mycroft plucks it from his fingers. He knuckles grow white. He sits down, heavily, holds the photograph to his face and stares, stares, stares.

‘And...’ Sherlock adds.

And.

\--

**1916**

\--

Can’t spare much time to write, says the letter. Am alive, am well for now. Missing you terribly, Liz. Send love to my friends back home.

The ‘my’ has been traced over until it is prominent and bold, the rest of the sentence petering into smaller handwriting.

‘I thought you should have it,’ Elizabeth tells him, wiping at his cheeks.

\--

**1917**

\--

Mycroft leaves home, moves into a small flat closer to the city. He is too old to live in his father’s residence now, and in any case his promotion at the city council demands more and more of his time.

He finds he lives closer to the Lestrades than he did previously, and thus he spends a lot of his spare time in the company of Elizabeth. She spends more than a few nights at his flat after curfew has found them still wandering the streets, too far for her to walk home. He doesn’t mind when she sometimes brings David along. He is short and quite docile but very kind. Mycroft feels more at ease with him around, sees Elizabeth smile more genuinely than she used to.

They stumble home one evening after a night in the local dance hall, Elizabeth light on her toes as always, David never too far away, and Mycroft too polite to refuse a pretty girl’s gently proffered hand. Mycroft bids the two goodnight at the doorway to his spare bedroom before continuing down the hall. He brushes his teeth, changes into loose pyjamas and lies on one side of his large bed. Too large for one person, but he is waiting.

He pushes open the lid to the tin on his bedside table, pulls the top two items out. He stares at the scribbled words for a long time, brushes his fingers over the indent in the paper the ‘my’ has left. He lifts the photo to his face and looks at that, instead.

He hasn’t heard for a long time.

\--

**1918**

\--

‘Mycroft.’

Someone is shaking him awake, a decidedly male hand tapping at his cheek.

‘Greg,’ Mycroft murmurs, and opens his eyes.

‘Yes,’ Elizabeth says, sitting beside him. Mycroft looks at her, then at David, in confusion. ‘Greg,’ Elizabeth repeats, ‘he’s coming home.’

Mycroft is not sure whether he is laughing or crying or making no sound at all.

\--

‘You must be gentle,’ Elizabeth tells him. ‘You must be kind.’

‘I will, yes.’ Mycroft is finding it hard to breathe. He has never liked hospitals, but that is not why he is feeling anxious.

‘Gentle,’ Elizabeth says again, and opens the door to the ward.

It is empty inside, but for one sitting on the end bed, shoulders hunched, arms braced beside him.

‘Greg.’

The air leaves Mycroft’s lungs in one moment and in the next he is on the bed, hands pressed to Greg’s jaw, forehead touching his.

‘Hello again, Mycroft.’

Greg’s voice is gruffer, weary like the lines on his face and smudges under his eyes. His skin is tanned, stubble patchy and hair limp and dirty. He is the most beautiful thing Mycroft has ever seen.

‘My darling,’ Mycroft says, and Greg pushes him back until he can see him properly. His smile is lopsided, expression just a little too open for Mycroft to pinpoint one emotion.

‘Am I still?’ Greg asks.

He is worried, Mycroft hears in his voice. He is tired and scared and... ashamed, perhaps. But that can’t be right, can’t be. He shouldn’t be.

‘Yes,’ Mycroft says, and Greg pulls him in, arms tight around his shoulders. Mycroft goes willingly, leaning forward into him. He rests one palm on Greg’s thigh for balance, the other on the empty space beside it where the other should be.

\--

Greg cries sometimes. He cries and sometimes Mycroft holds him, in the middle of the bed, no longer too large. Sometimes Mycroft thinks it kinder to pretend he doesn’t hear. Sometimes when Greg stands at the kitchen sink and bows his head, shoulders shaking, Mycroft treads quietly to the living room and holds his head in his hands.

Greg cries when he finally tells the story, and Mycroft listens carefully, stroking his fingers through Greg’s hair. When he finishes, Mycroft kisses him and kisses him and kisses him. When Greg stops shaking, Mycroft carefully unbuckles the prosthetic leg, holds Greg’s stump in his hands and kisses that, too.

\--

**1919**

\--

Greg sits at the kitchen table, radio turned on loud in front of him. His arm reaches up across his chest, hand linked with Mycroft’s who leans over the back of the chair, heart beating wildly in his chest.

It’s over. The war. It’s over.

Greg releases his fingers, turns the radio off and turns to the side on his chair, beckoning Mycroft to stand in front of him.

‘I can’t kneel,’ he says, staring up at Mycroft with large eyes. ‘But marry me.’

‘Yes,’ Mycroft says immediately, closing his eyes and standing rigid with sudden emotion. Greg takes both his hands, presses his mouth to each palm and then holds them to his stubbled cheeks.

Mycroft breathes slowly and then sinks to his knees, pulling Greg’s face toward him.

\--

‘The first time I saw you,’ Greg says slowly, arms pillowed behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Mycroft is brushing his teeth, watching through the doorway. ‘I thought, if I have to watch you marry my sister...’ He trails off into a silence that lasts until the lights are off and Mycroft is tucked in bed next to him. ‘No,’ he finally amends. ‘The first thing I thought was that you had excellent posture. But after that...’

‘The first time I saw you,’ Mycroft says, touching his foot to Greg’s ankle, ‘I forgot your sister’s name.’

Greg’s laugh is loud and long, and Mycroft feels the shift in the mattress as Greg’s body relaxes in a way it hasn’t for over a year.

\--

‘I now pronounce you,’ Elizabeth claims, and then pauses to hold suspense, ‘...Husbands.’

She and David clap. Sherlock sits silent with his violin in his lap. Greg’s walking stick clatters to the floor as he clasps Mycroft’s face in his large hands and kisses him soundly, Mycroft’s grandfather’s watch heavy on his wrist, his own dog tags hidden beneath Mycroft’s shirt.

Mycroft feels giddy, feels proud and feels alive.

‘Will you dance with me?’ he asks, breathless.

Greg looks worriedly down at his prosthetic, but nods regardless. Mycroft settles close against him as Sherlock’s bow plays out the slow beginning of a song. He can hear Elizabeth and David dancing on the other side of the living room, their footfalls much more graceful than the clunks of Greg’s feet.

They make a beautiful sight, he is sure, but none so beautiful as Greg’s toothy grin, eyes crinkled in happiness.


End file.
